Belle's Deal
by darcyfarrow
Summary: On their sixth anniverary, the wife of the Dark One makes him a deal he can't refuse. Fluffy fluff (and OOC for Rum, but I swear, if OUAT doesn't give me some Rumbelle goodness soon I'm going to do something drastic: write it myself.)


"Happy sixth—uh oh."

Rumplestiltskin froze in place, for that wasn't her own chair his wifey was sitting in, nor even the edge of the table, as she used to, before he brought her a chair of her own from storage. Nor did her arms open wide in welcome, as they did most mornings, ready to offer an encouraging hug to start his day or a thank-you for some small kindness he'd performed the day before. Nor was it her usual sunny smile with which she was greeting him now: no, it looked a lot more like the expression she wore last month when he'd come creeping into the castle after a night of boozing with Jefferson (well, it wasn't like Rumple could get drunk, could he? And a smart dealer has to do a little socializing with his business associates, doesn't he?).

One foot slipped back behind the other. Maybe he could still back out of this. Not that he had any idea why, but clearly he was in trouble for something, so he twisted his body around and tried to tiptoe back the way he'd come.

She was on him in a second, like a werewolf on a newborn lamb (an _innocent_ newborn lamb: he hadn't done a single thing to warrant her anger). He never knew a human could move so fast, especially one in skirts. She had him by the collar before he could take two steps forward (why oh why hadn't he worn his slippery leathers today?).

"RUMPLESTILTSKIN!"

He tried smiling at her. His smile was always infectious. She could never resist his smile. It was a thing of rare beauty; it made her go all warm and soft insi—

He was torn off his feet as she jerked him backwards. Good gods, she'd grown strong after seven years of cleaning the castle. Flat on his back like an ant about to be crushed under a farmer's boot, he blinked up at her, making his eyes round and wide and his voice small. "W-w-what did I do, sweetheart? Honey? Darling?"

She folded her arms and planted one dainty foot in his chest. "Think back."

Oh gods, the situation was worse than he'd thought. She was making him play the Think Back game. He'd learned long ago he couldn't win that game, couldn't even force it to a draw: the game would always leave him confessing to a string of crimes she never would have known about otherwise, until he finally guessed right and stumbled across the one that had originally provoked her anger. "But-but-but I remembered our anniversary. See?" He curled his lips into a hopeful but faked smile and slipped his fingers into his pocket (not that a sorcerer needs pockets, but old human habits die hard). Moving slowly so as not to provoke an attack, he slid the little box from his trousers and lifted it towards her for her inspection. A pretty little box it was too; he'd taken care in choosing it; a little wooden thing hand-painted with roses. Any other day, she would have plucked it from his claw and ooh-ed and ahh-ed over it for a full five minutes before getting around to seeing what was inside. Any other day.

She yanked the box from his claw and flipped the lid open. "Yeah. Nice."

"But darling, sweetheart, love of my life: that's a genuine pearl, fresh from the sea. I had to wrestle a clam for two hours just to—"

"I said it was nice."

"And the chain it's mounted on: I spun that gold myself. Took me half a day—"

"Yeah. It's lovely. Thank you. Now, what about what you promised me?" He'd heard that couples who've lived together a long time will take on some of each other's physical attributes, and now he knew that old wives' tale to be true, for the way her lips peeled back to display her teeth, that was a classic Rumplestiltskin expression, intended (and always successful) to disarm an enemy just before making a victim of him.

He swallowed hard. "Honey? Wife of mine?" Then he closed his eyes briefly to concentrate. Was it something he was supposed to fix? Pick up at the market? Take out or bring in or move from Point A to Point B? He was sure he'd finished all of his chores yesterday, and it must have been to her satisfaction, because the way she'd welcomed him when he climbed into bed last night. . . .

No getting out of it: he had to confess, "I don't remember. . . .What did I promise?"

"Think back."

Not that again!

"The night of our first anniversary. You had conjured an orchestra and we danced through the night, and drank wine imported from the Western Lowlands, and ate roast pork with gravy and those little potatoes you love."

His mouth started to water. He forced himself to concentrate. He was supposed to be acting contrite now, not salivating over memories of her cooking. "Ye-e-e-s. . . ?"

She huffed, even more perturbed that he still didn't remember. "You promised me something that night, and now it's time for you to deliver!" Her heel dug into his chest and she glared. "Or does the Dealer keep his agreements with strangers but ignores the ones he makes with his own wife?"

"If you'll let me up, I'm sure I'll remember. I think much more clearly on my feet." He patted her dainty foot, and with a growl she lifted it, and he scrambled to stand, brushing off his clothes. The floor really needed sweeping after last week's rains, but he wasn't about to mention that right now.

A deal, she had said. That meant it was stored in his memory bank somewhere, for he never forgot a deal. He cocked his head as though the memory might slide out his ear. First anniversary. Dancing. Orchestra. In the never-before-used ballroom. He in a rich red silk shirt edged with gold thread, she in her golden ball gown, her luxurious hair piled high (how did she get it to stay up all night, after all that dancing?). Roast pork with gravy and little potatoes sprinkled with herbs from her kitchen garden—

"Rumplestiltskin! I'm waiting!"

"Yes, yes, I remember, we were dancing and—"

"After the dancing. After you'd un-conjured the orchestra and you swept me up into your arms and carried me up the staircase to our bed and removed all our clothing with a wave of your hand."

"Ah. So I did. I remember."

"That was the night I discovered your ticklish spot."

Oh no, not the ticklish spot. If she attacked him in the ticklish spot right now he'd be jelly in her hands. Jelly, or melted butter, or strawberry jam swirled into a pot of porridge—his stomach growled and he smiled sheepishly (where did that expression come from? He'd known a thousand sheep in his lifetime and had yet to see one smile).

"You'll get your breakfast after I get my deal."

"Yes, my love." Deal, deal, deal, deal, what deal did the Dark One make with his bride? To love and honor her all the days of his life (an offering not to be taken lightly, considering he'd live forever). To cherish her, to protect her from his legion of enemies, to take out the garbage every Thursday, to never wear socks in bed, to—

"Rumplestiltskin!"

Oh, yeah. Now he remembered. Good gods, did he really promise that? What had he been thinking? In the darkest hours of the night, relaxing on their swan-down pillows, his little wife's soft breath warm against his chest, her fingers drawing random patterns on his skin. . . and then her tears. Her sweet shoulders shook and her tears fell cold against his chest and when he implored her to tell him what was wrong, when he swore he would move heaven and hell to fix it, she said. . . she said. . .

Oh gods. Yes. He remembered it word for word now.

_"Are you not happy, my love?" he asked urgently. Had she at that moment requested a ring made of a stone from the moon, he would have flown there without hesitation to provide it. Had she asked for his castle, all his gold, all his worldly possessions—they were hers and welcome. Had she asked for his lifesblood, he would have gladly spilled it._

_She asked for a baby._

_The one thing the most powerful man in the world couldn't provide._

Well, not that he couldn't, exactly. He'd done it before, obviously. Though he couldn't exactly be sure he could again, with the curse upon him. In all the centuries of Dark One history, there had never been a Dark Child. In fact, no Dark One had ever married. The role just wasn't cut out for long-term commitments. Nor had a human ever become the Dark One with a child already in tow, as he had. An iconoclast, a rule-breaker, a trend-setter, Rumplestiltskin was.

So with no precedent to consider, he had no idea what to expect if he attempted to reproduce. He assumed the result wouldn't be pretty. . .wouldn't be human. The spawn of the Dark One could only be monstrous. Maybe it would be born with a tail and fangs and a hunger for human flesh. Maybe it would whimper and cower in the shadows, never to feel the sunlight on its scaly back. Maybe like Cronus it would devour its own family. Maybe it wouldn't survive its own birth.

He tried to explain all this to his young wife, his young, gentle, kind-souled wife who always saw the good in everyone (though she wasn't too fond of Regina) and always thought things would turn out fine in the end. Long after the sun had arisen he talked, but when his voice finally gave out she had but one answer: "I want a baby."

He was quite adept at making people's wishes come true (was it his fault if their semantics were seldom clear?). How could he deny the woman he loved of her heart's desire, when he had found two sons for a king he despised? He thought long and hard, and then he offered to find a baby, a healthy but unwanted infant—the world was full of them—and they could raise that baby as their own.

She wanted _their_ baby. She wanted the full motherhood experience.

And so he had promised to think about it and study his books for an answer, a way to ensure their child would be human.

When would he have the answer, she demanded.

Five years, he'd said, spontaneously. Give me five years and I'll find a way.

Yup. Five years. His wifey hadn't forgotten. She was glaring up at him, her arms folded, her teeth bared.

And then suddenly she wheeled about, turning her back to him, and when she wheeled about again to confront him her expression had changed. It was. . .clever. Devious. Dangerous. Like his own just before he sprang a trap. "Rumplestiltskin, I want a deal."

Uh oh.

"I have lived with you long enough to know your magic will let you refuse a deal only if the terms are unreasonable or the task impossible. So here is the task—which the existence of Baelfire proves you're fully capable of doing: By this time next month, I want to be pregnant with our baby—yours and mine. And here are my terms: give me a baby and for sixteen years I will nurture and teach and protect that child with everything I have to give. I will raise him or her up to be a smart, brave and good person. And on his or her sixteenth birthday, I will give that child back to you, an heir you will be proud to call your own."

Yikes.

"But we've discussed this, darling. You know there's a likelihood that any child I produce will not be human. It could be a monster, a demon, a killer, a—"

"Not our child," she declared. "Our child will be smart and brave and good."

"It's just simple biology, sweetheart. Just as the product of a werewolf and a dog can only be—uh oh."

"Did you just call me a dog?!"

"No, my love, I, I, I—what I meant was—if a, if a. . .if a demon and an angel reproduce"—inwardly he sighed; he'd gotten out of that hole quite cleverly! "If a demon and an angel reproduce, the dominant traits that are passed on to the baby can only be demonic. Surely you don't want to sentence your child to a life of misery and loneliness, do—"

"Our baby will be strong and brave and good!" She poked his chest. "Listen, Dark One. You're not going to panic me out of this. You have the gift of prophecy. If you're so afraid of our child's future, go look! See what he will become! And then come back reassured and give me my deal!"

"I can't see my loved ones' futures; you know that, Belle."

"No man is an island, Rumplestiltskin, not even you. Go look at the futures of other babies in this land: one of them is bound to become our child's friend or teacher or lover or business partner or something! Follow the thread of that child's future until it intersects with our child's, and then you'll have your answer." She pushed him toward the staircase. "Go! When you come back with the answer I'll have your breakfast waiting."

This was all the Dark One's fault, Rumplestiltskin muttered to himself as he climbed the stairs to his lab. If not for the Dark One's quirks and compulsions, Rumple wouldn't be in this predicament. He'd be downstairs, enjoying his porridge and jam, his loving wife seated at the dining table beside him, a roaring fire warming his old bones. Stupid Dark One.

* * *

White-faced (which was quite an accomplishment, considering his rosy complexion), Rumplestiltskin emerged three days later from his lab. His hair was matted, his clothing wrinkled and smelly, his eyes bloodshot, but he had his answer.

And Belle had breakfast waiting. Never mind the fact that it was 3:00 in the afternoon. She'd promised, and she always kept her promises. As he did.

"Well?" She poured him his tea, adding five lumps of sugar, just as he liked it.

He sat down heavily in his chair. A curl of steam rose from his chipped cup and tickled his nose. The pat of butter and stream of jam swimming in his porridge bowl made his stomach growl. He dug in, speaking around a mouthful of porridge. "Have you any redheads in your family?"

"My mother was a redhead. Why—" and then her face brightened. She knew what he was implying.

"It will be a girl. Petite like you, red hair, blue eyes, my hands and my smile."

Belle hooted with joy.

"She will be brave and strong and good, neither a monster or a mage, nor completely human. She will have no magic, but she will have knowledge of potions and powders that she gains from me, but she'll seldom use that knowledge. She will prefer an ordinary life. She will not be immortal, but she will live well beyond human years. And when she is nineteen she will meet a cobbler who lives in the next town over, and she will learn his trade, and when she is twenty they will marry."

Belle sat down in her chair, her eyes welling. "Oh Rumple," she said softly.

"Belle." He dropped his spoon and took her hand. "This child must be born. _We_ have to raise her. She requires you as her mother and me as her father, if her destiny—and her children's—is to be fulfilled."

"Yes. We will, we will raise her and teach her and love her all the days of our lives."

"Belle, it's not just for us. The world needs this child. When she and her husband—his name is Derrick, by the way—have been married two years, they will have a child of their own—"

"Grandparents!" Belle interrupted. "I'm going to be a grandma!"

"That child will have the gift of words and of deals, and when she is thirty-one years old, she will negotiate a treaty that will put an end to all wars between ogres and men, forever." He leapt to his feet. His porridge could keep. Seizing her arm, he pulled her toward the stairs. "Belle! We must make a baby!"

A little dark voice deep within her throat chuckled. "Husband, the deal is stuck."


End file.
